If I close my eyes and remember a morning I spent collecting seashells while on a family trip years ago, I can vividly recall the faded pink plastic bucket I carried, see the colorful shells scattered like tossed confetti all around me, feel the sensations of cool, wet sand under my feet, and of gravity tugging lightly on my ankles from the angled beach. I can hear the sound of waves, as rhythmic as breathing, and the impatient cries of gulls. I can enjoy the contrast of warm sunshine and cool breezes on my skin, and can smell seawater, fish, and sunblock. When lived, these experiences together produced a feeling of pure contentment and peace.

It is hard to come through the door the first time you see a therapist. It just is. I hear it described in different but similar ways, and it is often tracked back to the same thing...shame. "I should be able to do this on my own", "I'm a private person.", "Why can't I figure this out?", "Will I see anyone I know?"